


Dreamworld

by Languidly



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Transformers: Lost Light 25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:33:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24893956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Languidly/pseuds/Languidly
Summary: There are words, whispered so he can't make them out, but Rodimus remembers joy and grief both tearing at his spark, making him tremble.
Relationships: Megatron/Rodimus | Rodimus Prime
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	Dreamworld

**Author's Note:**

> Because the end of The Lost Light gave me feelings.

The dream is always the same.

He’s back on the bridge, and Megatron is looking at him almost-fondly out of the corner of a gleaming red optic. He's sitting just far away enough that Rodimus can't reach out and tap him on the arm. Behind them, Magnus is droning on and on about legislation and revisions. Ahead on the large screen blinks an infinite galaxy of stars.

They move to a hab suite - Megatron's, because the room has always remained somewhat bare - and then there's a flash in those optics again, now wicked and tender. Rodimus is flooded with dizzying pleasure, and he savors the heat of dark gray panels beneath his hands and the steel-strong thighs wrapped around his hips. There's an oddly gentle touch, a finger on his cheek, a warm palm that he closes his eyes and nuzzles into. 

There are words, whispered so he can't make them out, but Rodimus remembers joy and grief both tearing at his spark, making him tremble. His chest glows, uncontrollable and wanting, and Megatron pulls him down, chestplates opening in return and then there's only brightness and despair.

He always wakes up the same, optical lubricant hot and drying on his face and his fingers stretched in an empty grasp, reaching for something he will never be able to hold, not anymore. His spark thunders as his body snaps, furious denial against the recharge slab. There is the ghost of a familiar touch lingering on his plating, and a half-murmur of a name.

Some nights, he’ll down a little something to ease the agony, and then he’ll wait for the numbness to come back, a slow loosening of his limbs and a spreading fog in his processor.

And when the gaping chasm, the hollow in his center, finally recedes, Rodimus closes his eyes and prays he will dream it all over again.


End file.
